As Time Goes By
by theglamourfades
Summary: As time goes by, love always remains. Written for Banna April.
**A/N: Just a little thing to celebrate Banna April. I had a sliver of an idea and it ended up turning into this (and kind of ended up having two separate themes...).**

 **I don't, and never will, own Downton Abbey.**

* * *

Fifteen months. That was how long he had been away.

First in London with its grey skies and busy streets, so many buildings that left him feeling fenced in, unable for so long to see an escape. Then a short stop in the Midlands. It had been good to catch up with Fred – even if Fred's wife hadn't been as keen on him staying – and the time had allowed him to clear his mind and come up with a plan.

His head told him that he should try somewhere further. He had been thinking of Scotland when he first believed his career standing by his Lordship once more would be a short-lived one.

His heart was a steady, unrelenting thump against his ears, hammering upon the walls of his chest; unable to let him have a moment's rest. Its beat only ever told him of one place, and against his better judgment ( _better in which way, he had no notion_ ) he listened. In all truth, he suspected that his feet would have carried him back there whilst he slept, awaking to find the sun upon his face again, its rays coaxing forth the kind that brought hope as their steadfast companion.

The employment he found had its advantages, though he had to turn his back swiftly once he had served each punter their ale. The landlord joked that The Red Lion could boast the cleanest glasses of any establishment in Yorkshire, never mind just Kirkbymoorside. She did not know of his whereabouts, and he had said enough to keep her away _(and knew enough to send her back if she did dare)_ , but he was also sure that the last place Vera would expect to find him was residing in a pub.

He should have known that Anna would find her way to him. After all, his wanting heart had encouraged her _(it had called her name day and night without her knowing, although when she had turned her head momentarily in the direction he had been standing he foolishly believed that she had heard, just this once),_ making the trips into Downton in the few hours he had off each Wednesday afternoon. He imagined her with eyes trained to the ground, finding his footsteps where he had left no trail.

She later told him _(when she was back in his life, for good and proper)_ it was Lady Mary's doing, the contact she had with someone by the name of Sir Richard Carlisle. Her laugh had been sweet when he maintained that it had been her fairy powers all along, and he reached out to brace a hand against sturdiness of the oak tree as she kissed him underneath its generous shade, her small hand creeping under his unbuttoned jacket. He had been burning, melting, touched by the sun itself – or perhaps it was the press of her lips, all quicksilver and light meeting a mere mortal. He opened his eyes too quickly, checking that the wings she kept hidden from sight had not lifted her away, out of his sight and his reach.

Fifteen months, and there had not been a day within them where he had not thought about her. It had been all he could do to keep the minutes from not turning into seconds, but then it had been the thoughts of her that had allowed him to go on _(to breathe; plainly, to survive)_ and so he welcomed them, as much as they also brought him grief without her.

Being back was surreal to him, though he knew he was not dreaming. He had dreamt enough _(of Anna, always of Anna)_ to know how different – and how very wonderful – reality was, especially now that it had resumed.

It had been four months since he had taken up the role of valet once again, finding himself in his old room in the servants' quarters of that grand residence. His world had stopped spinning out of control and equilibrium was restored ( _as much as it could be in the midst of war_ ).

Wednesday afternoons were no longer the sole pinpoint of light, his dark days behind him ( _if a shadow of an unknown existence still remained, somewhere_ ) ( _but nowhere near the both of them_ ). To sit next to her as they both occupied themselves with some mending or other kind of work, to pass her in one of the many corridors. To hear her laughter as someone told a joke – as life went on, with all of its amusements as well as its sorrows; to kiss her in the moonlight with the stars as their shroud, smiling down upon them.

That he could do any one of those things – sometimes, all of them in one day – made his existence more joyful than he could have ever hoped or dared it to be.

Their half-days ( _the prize of every servant_ ) did not always correspond. Both would have an afternoon spared, owing to the specifics of their roles, and he would always rather spend his sitting in the hall reading, knowing that for at least some of the time she would be able to sit by him, even if not for all that long. As the weather got better her encouragement made him go out of doors, to Ripon or to Thirsk. Each time he came back with a small token for her, usually in the form of a cake or other sweet treat, which she would insist on halving with him.

She talked about going back to Kirkbymoorside once or twice ( _or perhaps more frequently than that_ ) some day – with what he considered was a hint of mischief in her voice. There had been a lovely little teashop and some gardens, but she had only ever seen inside the four walls of that pub, where she had been so out of place _(a blooming flower amongst the crowd of thorns)_. One day, he promised. When they were married, he thought, and he could make things right ( _though she had not done one thing wrong in pursuit of him_ , _and never could_ ).

He wasn't a religious man, but he prayed that their marriage would come soon.

The gardens of Downton made a fine substitute this summer; more often, the surrounding fields and orchards provided the scene for their getaways on the ( _more prized_ ) half days that they did share. She brought along a picnic – with her hair tied in a long, loose braid – and he brought the books for them to read. More accurately, he read from the pages while she nestled at his side or laid her head in his lap, using his hat to shade her eyes from the golden sun.

In all his life, he couldn't name anything that he loved more ( _aside from her_ ).

One afternoon moved particularly too swiftly into the evening, and he regretted having to stop before the chapter was anywhere near finished. As he closed the book, trapping some sweet summer air between its pages, he found her gazing up at him with a soft smile upon her face and a piece of notepaper in her fingers. He made to reach for it, too slow as she sat up, holding it from his reach. He couldn't help but chuckle, eyes entranced while he watched her unfurl and her lips part, though rather than reading aloud she mouthed its words silently to herself, her gaze following a steady path.

It was all a mystery to him, until he recognised the scrap. The lines upon it had been made by his own hands, folding and then slipping the note into her pocket before she left him that one Thursday afternoon, to go where he would not return for some seven months in the future.

"What does this mean?" she asked, pointing to the scrawl of his handwriting; her beaming smile telling him that she would cherish the declaration whatever it meant. "I've tried saying it, but I don't think I'm getting it right."

His own smile widened to a grin as he read the words to himself, a blush of colour coming into his cheeks ( _too much sun for his complexion – he knew that was a fib)._

"Try it again, for me."

She looked a little put-out, lowering her brows at him, before she persevered in the light of his encouraging gaze.

"Mo ghrá," she pronounced, placing her mouth cautiously, "mo chroí."

He felt a keen fluttering in his stomach; hearing her utter what he had written such a time ago, though the sentiment had not altered, had an even greater effect upon him now.

"You said it perfectly," he replied, after he had composed himself quite enough.

She scrunched her nose up; her eyes pinned on him, waiting. "But what does it mean?"

He paused, more for his own benefit than for hers. He had never been one to use any terms of endearment. He hadn't even had so much as a pet name for his former wife _(for that's what she was, in all but the legality of things)_. Memories had come back to him, of his dear mother teaching him the phrases, folding his once-small hand into hers. But he had always called her _Mum_ or _Ma_. Perhaps it had been out of want of bringing the two women he loved most closer together, now that they were no longer able to meet.

But that wasn't all of it. It had run far deeper than that, for much longer; that was the plainest truth. It had been a necessity, to express the feelings that could never leave him even when they were kept apart by unfortunate circumstance.

It remained that way now, looking into the blue of her eyes, as bright as the sky above them had been an hour or so before.

" _My love,"_ he uttered, resisting the growing urge to touch her. " _My heart_. That's what they mean. _Mo ghrá, mo chroí_."

He hadn't known that she would come to see him, of that he would tell her he loved her on that one sweet afternoon. When he had written the note, carrying it with him as he had travelled from place to place, he was sure that it would never get to her ( _even if he wished for her to hold it dear, to carry it round with her in her crisp white apron from day to night)_.

"And you are both to me," he continued, keeping his voice and his gaze steady. "You have been for so long, Anna, I swear."

It had torn him apart to have to leave her. He had left her distraught, her heart in shreds, and he despised himself for it. It would have been deserving to him to have suffered the same in return if fortune had not been so kind ( _kinder than anything he had come across, aside from her),_ but then, fortune favoured the brave, and his heart belonged to the bravest that existed.

She clasped his hands tight, her wide smile leaving her near breathless while her delicate fingers wrapped about his larger ones.

"Mr Bates," she trilled, causing the smile to spark upon his face in a similar fashion, "I don't know what to say. That's the nicest..."

Her nose nudged against his before their lips met, and he stayed smiling as they kissed, all of the fog long dissipated. The scent of the wildflowers paled beyond the sweet fragrance of her skin, her cheek soft to the touch as he held it in his palm.

" _Mo ghrá,"_ – the first words to leave his lips afterwards, breathed out in the open air ( _with no hesitation at all_ ) - " _mo chroí_."

* * *

Seventeen months. The longest, hardest to endure; surpassing all of the agonies he had previously encountered, losing the full use of his leg ( _and his dignity for a considerable time_ ), losing his mother.

Losing her ( _so he had so foolishly believed_ ) _(and once more, and time again, she had proved him wrong and saved his very soul in doing so)_.

In his mind, it seemed longer. He had aimed to survive from day to day, resetting the clock to hours when the bleakness turned to pitch black. Minutes were saved for the times when she came, always bringing the light in with her, never letting his shadows overwhelm her ( _she told him that they belonged to them both when he would call them his own, and never doubted that they would be dissolved, one day when the sun shone too brightly for them to remain)_

 _("Not for one minute?")_

 _(He never doubted in the minutes she spent with him, but when she was not there, sometimes it was all he could feel)_

Months in which they should have been together, celebrating their newly-married state. Celebrating being one, in the way he had long felt in his heart. Minutes and hours and moments they had had, each and every one perfect to him. God, even when she had clasped her arm to him and pressed her lips with urgency ( _with fear, with despair, with strength that outdid a thousand warriors, with sweetness that gave him hope in spite of it all and the deepest certainty he had ever felt)_ to his own. The only thought in his mind when he was led away ( _away from her)_ was to be so thankful that she had insisted they marry, that they had been able to spend a little time together knowing one another ( _as they were always meant to be – him as much as her, if not more so)_ as husband and wife.

He hated himself for leaving her, for everything he had done before he had known her. But it was love that brought him back, built him up, redeemed him: over the minutes, the hours, the days, the months he had to spend in those few dark rooms, with only himself ( _to blame)_.

He had kissed her photograph countless times when he lay down, trying not to think too much on whether he would see the light of day as it should have been known again. It was her light that he longed for the most; her voice against his ear, her touch surrounding him, her breath being his own. Until he could hold her in his arms again ( _God, he hoped, he prayed_ _it could be possible_ ), he cradled the picture in his palms, took it from his lips to his chest over and over, and over, whispering the words like a mantra all the while, in the hope that she would be able to hear them where she lay ( _he hoped with no traces of tears in her eyes, unlike those that had gathered in his own)_ , back in the big house ( _where at least she had the comfort of being surrounded with care by those who wanted to see her thrive and be happy again)_.

"Mo ghrá, mo chroí _, (I'm so sorry),_ mo ghrá, _(I'll be with you again)_ mo chroí _(I promise)_."

( _Just a little longer) (It was nearly summer, after all)_

The minutes ( _he counted and cherished them all_ ) since his release had been blissful, as he had no doubt they would be. He felt rather awkward being a spare part for a while, neither in a job nor out of one, thanks to the graciousness of his Lordship. She teased him about making himself useful, her face shining with joy as she passed her purse with the torn strap into his hands ( _she may well have been flushing on recalling how it had become torn in the first place)_ , brushing her fingers hidden at the centre of his palm, smiling like a minx at him all the while. He fought against the stirrings below his stomach watching her stare at him so intently, but embraced the fullness within his heart at knowing they ( _because now, the present and the future belonged to them both – finally, the better that they had promised one another overcoming the worst)_ were free, and that it wouldn't be long until their most ardent longings would be fulfilled, once more.

He listened to her breathing inbetween kisses, noting the way it changed as he touched her – here, there, where he remembered from their first and only meeting and where he had never been as before this very moment. He held onto her as fervently and desperately as she clung onto him, cradling her close while she called his name aloud to the walls of their very own bedroom ( _not one that was loaned to them_ ), letting her needs and desires guide him along the way to her very heart ( _she leading him back to his own_ ).

He kissed her again and again and again, smoothed her hair as he felt the fine sheen of perspiration upon her forehead; said her name in a range of tones as he felt her legs wind yet more around him, her arms bringing him nearer until their bodies seemed to be one in every single sense.

She brought them to the brink as much as he did, and afterwards he was sure that he cried tears of joy at it – the wonder that consumed him from temple to toes, the love that overwhelmed him from before its beginning, far and beyond its end.

They were together, and he was himself again, after so long in the wilderness with only his memories of her and her love that outlasted it all.

She was warm at his side – fit right at the curve of his frame – and he let out a soft sigh of happiness. He expected that she was asleep, as still and quiet as she was against him. That in itself was something of amazement to him; that he could hold his wife ( _of three days, of seventeen months; for the rest of his life)_ whilst she slumbered, so peaceful and perfect, all troubles lifted. It was something he had been looking forward to just as much as their physical reunion, if not more in many respects.

He adjusted his arm ever so slightly, cautious not to disturb her, in order to arrange the wayward locks of hair that had fallen over her face ( _he needed little excuse to be able to touch that golden silk)_ , soon caught off-guard by a sensation, repeated, stroking up from his hipbone to a little beyond his ribs.

He sputtered out laughter, falling back against the bed and seeing her eyes – very much open – flash with amusement and sheer delight at his wriggling, reduced to a delicate and almost helpless being underneath the caress of her fingertips.

( _And how she had read his desires as closely as he did hers; indeed, she seemed to know his body far better in the space of hours than he had in all the years of occupying it)_

"Anna," he looked up at her as he rasped, "please."

"I remembered that you were ticklish," she said with evident pride. "I didn't realise it was quite this much."

"I thought you were sleeping. I didn't want to wake you."

"I'm good at pretending." There was a fairy flourish in her voice ( _he truly had married his very own sprite)_. "Besides, I couldn't sleep, not knowing that my terribly handsome husband was right beside me."

He smiled instantly, his arm reaching upwards to link her fingers with his, giving her hand a squeeze before her head pillowed upon his chest.

"Knowing all the things he's capable of," – he felt her smile against his skin, her hands drifting softer down his sides – "and knowing that I am the luckiest woman in the whole world."

The touch of her lips upon the centre of his chest caused him to shiver, his hand lacing through the gentle waves of her hair that caressed him just as well.

"To have you back with me..."

She near-whispered that unfinished sentence, though she was too overcome to say anymore, even her hands stilling against him. He gathered her close, turning them both, his contented sighs not enough to drown out the faint crackle coming from the back of her throat.

"Oh, Anna." He closed his eyes briefly while he kissed her cheeks and the tip of her nose, tracing the formation of her lips with the pad of his thumb.

"I'm sorry. I told myself I wouldn't cry," she sniffed, and he could see no more than one tear trickle from her eyes. "I've no reason to, not any more."

He shook his head, cupping her face with his palms.

"I've missed you so much," she uttered, "I've thought of nothing else than being with you like this since the moment they took you away."

There was sorrow at the memory, a sting they both felt. The way she looked up at him, so open and confessional of what was embedded deep in her heart, made his own sing in a way that even took him by surprise.

Her hand was on his shoulder; she followed its path down his arm with her gaze until it went back to him.

"I had so many dreams. I thought I wouldn't be able to sleep without you next to me ever again, but I suppose I wore myself out."

"I'm sorry, my darling," he began, blaming himself for what she had had to face, alone.

The fierce smile rose on her face, just one of many that he cherished dearly.

"Never apologise, Mr Bates," she almost sang, her lips curving at the corners. "Every time I dreamt you were there. Holding me, kissing me. Telling me that you'd be back, and it was just a little longer. You know, that's what kept me believing."

"I should be glad for that," he said, dipping his head to kiss her at the crook of her neck. "Because I'm not sure I could have said the same myself, as much as I wanted to."

"You should have more faith in yourself."

"I will now." He let out a chuckle at the look upon her face. "I promise."

She breathed in sharply, making him pause too. "That's what you'd always say. In my dreams."

He found himself smiling ( _surely there hadn't been a moment where a smile hadn't graced his face since the moment he'd been back with her)_ , seeing how she looked so happy. The very same way she had when they had given their vows and been pronounced as husband and wife, but somehow even more radiant and beautiful.

"I missed you, so very much." He lowered his mouth to hers, catching her lips softly. "I wish we'd had more time," – she kissed him again before he could go on, smiling up at him as they broke apart – "before..."

"Let's not think of it now," she said, stroking the hair at his temples. "We have this. We have each other. That's all I've ever wanted."

She was right, and he had vowed to spend his coming days – their coming days – living in their present, no need to mourn for a past that was behind them or worry for a future that took too long in arriving.

He took her hand, entwining their fingers as his lips started a trail downwards from her collarbone, leaving countless kisses in his wake.

"Mo shíorghrá," he murmured against her skin, feeling her body rise at his touches.

He had dreamt of her too, her presence always being the thing that sustained him. For the rest of the night _(for there was so much of it left)_ and indeed for the rest of their life together ( _for that was forever_ ), he intended to worship her, completely and thoroughly. He would not rest until she had all the love she needed, all that rightfully belonged to her.

"John," her gasp evened out, rounding his name softly. She squeezed his hand, succumbing quickly, and he did not let go. He held onto her tighter.

"I'm here, mo ghrá," he told her, connecting his gaze with her own above him ( _and how she looked so, so beautiful there_ ). "Always."

* * *

Nine months. Their son was nine months old, and John still could not comprehend the immense happiness he gave to them.

He was learning to stop looking for explanations ( _breaking the habit of a lifetime_ ) and simply enjoying everything that parenthood brought, the disturbed sleep and the even earlier mornings. Of course he was vigilant, becoming more so as the lad grew, grasping out further and reaching up higher. Anna kept his overprotective ways in check, walking the line between careful watchfulness and sheer glee in all of their child's endeavours with a far more natural ability ( _and more often, she settled on the side of the latter, the paired squeals and giggles of mother and son as they played proving to be the sweetest harmony he had ever heard_ ).

Occasionally and privately, he grieved for all that had been ( _for Anna, most of all – he cried out of her sight, despite what he had said to her once about never having to cry alone)_. The hard times they had faced were more than any other couple, living or passed, had had to bear, he was most certain. Sometimes he wondered whether it was the price paid for loving so much. But they had always had each other ( _even when uncertainties that were not needed clouded the clarity of said love, for a short while)_. And now they had William. He was their pride and their joy, the reason for so many of their smiles these days. He was a source of light and hope in both of their lives ( _fair hair and rosy cheeks, made of the sun itself, even with his birth in the midst of winter)_.

He was their reward; an affirmation of their love's ability to always blossom anew, whilst the old buds remained.

John held their boy, little legs dandling either side of his comparative large bulk ( _he was growing every day, but still felt so tiny when he was in his father's arms_ ). He aimed his mouth towards one of the chubby cheeks, and William bobbed his head away, delighted by the game he had devised just recently. John joined in with his son's laughter, eventually stealing his kiss when the eruption of giggles became the sole occupation to the boy.

"Well we've had our boys' time, haven't we, Will? Time to see what your mamma's up to."

She was sitting in the armchair, knitting placed neatly in her lap and teacup on the small table at her side. He could see that her eyes were drowsy, but she perked up from the instant she saw them both.

"What have you two been saying about me behind my back?"

"Nothing you don't already know."

William babbled in response too, and John grinned at the way her eyes beamed towards their son ( _they had a son; still such a marvel to behold_ ). He stopped her from getting up by coming closer, lowering Will in his arms so that he had free rein to kick and wriggle about, which he did yet more so as Anna placed a gently hand against his stomach.

"Shall I make up a fire?"

"Not tonight. I'll be going up soon, I think." She gazed up from their boy to him ( _he loved to catch the love shining in her eyes)_. "Unless you want one?"

He shook his head, finding even one simple word difficult to come by.

"We'll save it for when it gets colder, then." She smiled in satisfaction, opening her arms. "First, let me spend some time with this one."

He could never refuse, passing Will over with the grin already on his face. The boy grizzled a little at being jostled in the air, but was soon content as he settled into his mother's embrace. John was certainly most content, his heart widening while he watched them both. The loves of his life, so happy with one another.

They would have been happy either way ( _he would have loved her even harder, a thing that was more natural to him than the act of breathing_ ), but now he was aware that a child had made their circle complete. He had wondered of late, though he didn't want to tempt anything. This didn't appear to be the normal kind of tiredness she had after a day's work. Maybe it was the fact she had her own charge to look after now, too. She talked of giving notice ( _without his persuasion, but not without a little regret)_ while they lay in each other's arms at night, listening out for their son's murmurings. Lady Mary could manage, her second foray into motherhood giving her new confidence and taking up most of her time.

She wanted to see more of William, and after so much, she was more than entitled.

The thought of coming home to both of them, looking as wonderful a picture as they did at this very moment, brought him such joy that he found himself anticipating it even now.

"My little love," she cooed, smoothing the wisps of blonde hair upon Will's head, trading the caresses for kisses here and there. Will looked up at her with as much adoration in his blue-eyed gaze as his father did ( _he took after him in that very important respect_ ).

No need for firelight when she gave such warmth, the apples of her cheeks glowing.

 _(There was something about her, indeed_ )

He placed an arm around her as he settled his side against the chair, brushing fingertips over the fabric of her sleeve. She looked up and smiled at him ( _their unspoken language finding new phrases yet)_ while their little boy babbled happily, rocked in his mother's arms, still not completely aware of just how much love was his, unreservedly.

"Mo chuisle," he heard her utter softly to their son, and he smiled yet wider at the memories that had been passed on from his own childhood, generation to generation, time falling away but remaining a constant; a comfort.

It was now, in the simplest of moments, he realised that it had always been on their side.

* * *

 **A/N: I used Kristen APA's timeline to mark out the months in the first two scenes, so thanks goes to her for such attention to detail :) I also made use of some cut lines from the S2 Script Book where John mentions he has a friend in the Midlands who forwards on his post while the whole Vera thing is ongoing, and I figured he would have visited said friend while he was plotting a way to get back to Yorkshire.**

 **John explained the others, but 'Mo shíorghrá' means 'my eternal love' and 'Mo chuisle' means 'my pulse' (according to several sites, anyway).**


End file.
